


Svelte

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Author's Recommendations [30]
Category: Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Body Image, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 05:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20577239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Linus takes a minute to look at himself.





	Svelte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donskoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donskoi/gifts).

> Prompted on Tumblr. Y'all are always welcome to send me prompts.

Stepping out of the shower and aggressively rubbing the worst of the wet out of his hair, Linus feels over the counter for his glasses, one handed, eyes still closed. Once, this had been a simple routine, a habit; the bathroom layout had been memorized, his glasses were always set in the same spot, and if he knocked them into the sink once and awhile, it wasn't a big deal. 

Now, there's so many bathrooms, all of them set up different, too many too often to have real routine; this one has a counter, but the sink is a leaky, filthy basin he really doesn't want to pick his glasses out of. 

When his fingers bump them, he picks them carefully up, blinking his eyes open. He's not blind without them, far from it, but his acuity is poor enough to be disorienting, and half an hour or more trying to get around without them was bound to leave him with a clinging, monstrous headache. He rubs the steam from the lenses, pushes his hair out of his face, and slips them on before finishing drying off, turning back to the shower to drape his towel over the stall frame to dry.

Alone in the dingy motel room, he pauses when he catches a glimpse of himself in the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. An interesting courtesy provided in a room that was often rented by the hour, and not something Linus would usually bother giving much of his time to.

He doesn't look bad, all things considered. When he'd caught his own eye in the mirror, his left hand had been raised to his neck, rubbing across his throat, feeling the bruise bit under his ear. Two days old, it was pale now and didn't really hurt even when he pressed his fingers to it, but the pose, at least to Linus's eye in the mirror, drew attention to his mutilated hand. 

After showers -- and before and after rain or snow -- the amputation felt tight and sore. In the mirror, the vacant space where his pinky should start is red from the heat, the scar vibrantly white. 

It's not the only scar he has, but it's the only one from real violence, and it's not... it's not as ugly as he'd expected. He doesn't really even think about it much anymore, it's not a hindrance. In the mirror, he looks pretty good, honestly. He's lost a little weight again, and this time he thinks it might stick; chasing Frank Castle, he's a lot less sedentary. He's never really going to be svelte or built-up muscular, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. His hair, swept back and held by the weight of the water, is due for a cut, but the quick shave he'd given himself in the shower looks good, and the bags under his eyes aren't as pronounced as they were last time he'd really looked. 

He didn't look so bad. Middle age was agreeing with him; he felt stronger than he had in years. All that hauling equipment around and doing everything he could to keep up with Frank.

Closing his eyes and exhaling a slow breath, he makes himself look again, look at himself from someone else's eyes. See what Frank would see, looking at him like this.

It's a little depressing, honestly. His shoulders slope, his posture is bad. He's got tits, and his collarbones are barely visible. There's no definition to his arms, just pale flab. His gut, smattered with hair, hangs heavy, and his legs are thick and stocky. Hanging beneath the sagging curve of his stomach, heavy and soft, the thick length of his cock looks like a vulnerability barely worth note. At least the thickness of his thighs disguises if his balls have begun to really sag. 

He's not much to look at. There's not much to catch the eye of a man like Frank, someone kept in such ruthless shape, someone in a line of work where he was often working with or pitted against people in similar shape and dressed to show it off. Linus looks like what he is: a soft, fat man best suited to the background work. His hair is thinning -- badly -- at his temples, and his hairline has receded more than he'd thought. Thankfully, it's still thick in the back and top, and given the high likelihood of his dying in the next few years working with Frank, he thinks grimly that he might go to the grave not fully bald. 

Closer to the mirror, he can see his age on his face. Wrinkles starting to set into the heavy flesh of his face; his brow, around his eyes, marks that could be from smiling or frowning around his mouth. He doesn't look _old_, per say, but he's not exactly young, either. And the bags under his eyes are heavier than he'd thought, standing back by the shower stall. 

Fat, middle aged, stressed out. 

Well, it wasn't like Frank kept him around for looks, he thinks wryly, turning away to grab the pair of shorts he'd brought with him and setting about dressing. 

Leaving the bathroom, he finds Frank sitting on the bed. Wearing shorts and a ribbed undershirt, after a lengthy examination of his physical shortcomings, he feels embarrassed by the naked interest on Frank's face even as his heart picks up a little. Frank's eyes track him as he moves to grab real clothes, and he pointedly tries to focus on anything other than the man watching him. 

Hands touch his shoulders as he straightens up from digging in his bag; big warm rough hands. Violent hands, gentle on him, following the slope of his shoulders, sliding down his arms, encouraging him to drop the jeans he'd grabbed as Frank presses against his back and nuzzles against his neck, nose bumping that faded bruise. The hands on him are greedy; they slip around his waist, pushing up his shirt to grip his tits, feeling up his gut, moving lower.

It's hard, suddenly, to worry about what he looks like, when Frank touches him like he's the only thing that matters. 

"I just showered," he says, griping like he gives a damn when Frank starts mouthing wetly at his neck, building up to leaving new marks. "C'mon you're gettin' spit all over me."

"We can take another later," Frank mumbles against the back of his neck, barely pausing. "Look good. Look better on the bed."

Real sweet talking, coming from Frank. The obvious desire in his tone goes a long way to making Linus feel... not younger, not better looking, but maybe more like that shit doesn't really matter, not here and now. Frank wants him, whatever he looks like.

Frank wants him, and that's enough.


End file.
